


Speak Low when Speaking of Love

by estelraca



Category: October Daye Series - Seanan McGuire
Genre: Aftermath, Friendship, M/M, Musings on the Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: In the aftermath of the situation with the Selkies and the Roane, Quentin and Dean try to help their families feel better.  For Quentin that includes convincing the woman that most of the world is terrified of that she should come to dinner with him.  Spoilers through Unkindest Tide.
Relationships: Dean Lorden/Quentin Sollys
Comments: 13
Kudos: 59
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Speak Low when Speaking of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FiKate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiKate/gifts).



> The October Daye series is one of my favorites, for all the reasons you mentioned in your letter. I love the younger generation (I love all of them, really) and hope I've captured at least a bit of their magic for you. Have a wonderful holiday season!
> 
> The title is adapted from a Shakespeare quote, because how else should one name a Toby fic?

_Speak Low when Speaking of Love_

Quentin runs his hand over Dean's hair, careful not to touch forcefully enough to wake the other man. It's ridiculously early for a fae to be awake, the sun still several fingers up in the sky. Quentin could find his phone to see exactly _how_ early, but it doesn't really matter.

After all that's happened over the last week, Dean deserves to sleep as long as he wants.

Quentin should probably still be asleep, too. They were up late, long past the dawn—not doing anything important, just running around Goldengreen and enjoying being together.

If Quentin had been able to get his way, he would have taken Dean to Toby's house last night. They would have had pizza and played videogames and tried to pretend that Faerie isn't changing in wonderful, terrifying, impossible ways around them.

Quentin didn't get his way, though. It's something he's starting to get used to. Not that he was _spoiled_ as the Crown Prince, and he was certainly happy enough to head out on blind fosterage, but still... he _was_ the Crown Prince. People generally wanted to make him happy, either because they wanted him to remember them fondly in two hundred years or because, like his parents, they genuinely loved him.

Toby loves him, too. He's certain of that. But it's the kind of love that parents have for grown children, or that a mentor has for someone younger but still adult. It's the kind of love that has boundaries, and even when it wasn't—even when Toby thought he was just a kid—Quentin usually had to listen to her if he didn't want to die.

A lot of people have died. Again.

But not as many people as it could have been.

Because Toby is brave. Because Toby is _ridiculous_ , and pushes herself to her limits and beyond if she thinks someone's in need. Because Toby has gathered a collection of people around herself who share her values and are willing to go out on the same precarious limbs that she is, and—

"You're thinking too much." Dean has apparently awoken despite Quentin's best efforts. He blinks at Quentin, smiling softly, and then squirms forward so that he can kiss the tip of Quentin's nose.

"I'm not sure it's possible for me to think too much. I've got to think for my knight as well as myself, after all."

Dean laughs, as Quentin knew he would. "Does it work as well when you're not right by her?"

"About as well as it works when I _am_ right by her." Quentin grins, moving one arm around Dean's chest and pulling him tight against Quentin. "Sorry to wake you."

"You can make it up to me." Dean kisses Quentin on the lips this time, his teeth catching on Quentin's bottom lip and pulling gently.

Quentin shivers, seeing something of the Merrow in Dean's eyes for just a moment—something fierce, and terrible, and just as beautiful as it is terrible. He kisses Dean back with force, rolling them both so that he's atop Dean.

Sex with Dean is still new enough—sex in _general_ is still new enough—that it takes all of Quentin's attention, focusing his senses to razor-sharpness so that he can keep up with his strange, beautiful boyfriend. Will it lose this spark and shimmer over the years? When he's two hundred, two _thousand_ years old—assuming he survives that long—will this still be as wondrous an undertaking?

Will he still have Dean with him after that much time has passed?

Quentin lays beside Dean when they're done, Dean's hand in his, studying the scars where Dean was mauled by people who thought power was more important than children or honor.

"How are you still thinking so hard?" Dean's voice is slurred by a combination of sleepiness and deep satisfaction, and he stares at Quentin with fond exasperation.

"It's just..." Quentin kisses Dean's scars and then the rest of the fingers on that hand before letting him go. "A lot's happened, all right? What with the Roane and everything... not that you haven't noticed."

"It's hard _not_ to notice that we've got a whole new type of Fae running around. Or... old type of Fae running around, I suppose." Dean snuggles close, his arms wrapping around Quentin. "The Roane are practically legends. I suppose you've got a lot of experience hanging out with legends, though."

"Only with certain ones." Quentin steals a brief kiss. "Though speaking of... would you be willing to go see her?"

"Which legend are we talking about? The knight or the sea-witch?" Dean sounds less sleepy now.

"I mean, I figured we'd go back to Toby's place once your mother isn't going to panic if she can't find you at a moment's notice." Quentin tangles his fingers in Dean's hair, understanding the desire to keep him safe.

"We _could_ go anytime. It's not like my mother told me to stay put. That's not really the kind of mother she is." There's a mixture of fondness and exasperation in Dean's voice. "If I want to charge off and fight giants, she'd probably just tell me to sharpen my sword and say she'll be right behind me if I need her. But... well... like you said, she's on edge right now, and I'd rather not have her decide I've been kidnapped by someone just because she can't find me fast enough."

Quentin pulls Dean tighter to him, just for a moment, remembering the look in Dianda's eyes when she had thought Peter might be dead or a hostage. To have your children used against you not once but twice—well, it's a possibility that Quentin should consider very carefully, given who he's going to be in the future.

"You want to go see the Luidaeg, then?" Dean actually sits up halfway, the sheet falling down off his chest.

"I—yeah." Quentin draws his eyes up to meet his boyfriend's gaze. "I think that would be a good idea. Everything with the Roane and the Selkies has to have been hard for her."

Dean smiles, head giving a little shake. "I still don't know how you manage to treat her like she's just a _friend_ , but sure. If you want to go, go for it; if you want me to come, I'll come and try not to be absolutely terrified the whole time."

Quentin considers both options. "Is there a possibility that you _won't_ be terrified the whole time?"

"It's _possible_. I am my mother's child, after all." Dean shrugs the rest of the way out of the blankets, stretching. "I don't think it's _probable_. I'm sorry. I know she's important to you, but she... well, she's the Sea Witch."

"Yeah." Quentin sighs.

"Here. How about this." Dean goes over to a ridiculously ornate wardrobe and begins rifling through it for clothes. "You go see the Luidaeg, and while you're out you can invite Toby and the Cait Sidhe and anyone else you want over for dinner this morning. I'll invite my mother, and also let her know that I'm going to start leaving Goldengreen on a regular basis again. And yes, if you want to invite the Luidaeg for dinner, I'm fine with it."

Quentin closes his mouth, smiling sheepishly. "Thanks, Dean. You're the best."

"No, I'm just pretty good." Dean grins back at him. "Come bathe with me before we split up for the night."

Quentin doesn't need a second invitation. Not just because bathing with his boyfriend is something most young men would like, but because the baths at Goldengreen are _awesome_ , the type of thing that only a boy raised under the ocean would think to include in his knowe.

When they're both clean and dressed, Quentin gives Dean one more hug and a quick kiss before heading out of the knowe. It's not something he would have done two years ago, but he's learned and grown a lot in those two years. He's learned that the future is unpredictable; that love is precious; that if he doesn't hug the people he loves when he gets the chance, well, he may not get another chance.

Never let it be said that having a knight who thinks blood is the height of formal wear isn't educational.

It's easy enough for Quentin to follow the familiar paths to the Luidaeg's neighborhood, which hasn't changed at all. He had thought that it might, that having an approximation of her children back might have... what?

Not made her happy. The innocence that would have let him imagine the rebirth of the Roane from the descendants of their slaughterers making her happy died in Blind Michael's lands, if it ever truly existed.

Sadder, perhaps? Weighed down anew by both grief and the knowledge that she is being cast as the monster once again, held to words that were spoken in unfathomable mourning and unspeakable rage?

Her streets are hers; her doorstep is hers; the hallway that meets his firm, insistent knock is hers, all mold and mud and the claptrap accumulations of a terrible shoreline—the shore of age, the shore of power, the shore of the sea.

He walks through it without faltering, knowing what he will find at the end.

The Luidaeg is sitting on her couch, and she raises a glass filled with an amber liquid to him in toast as he comes towards her. "Quentin. I wasn't expecting to see you here. Thought you'd be busy."

"Not so much as I have been, and I haven't seen you in a while."

The Luidaeg laughs. "Boy, it's been less than a week since you saw me."

Quentin shrugs. "Sometimes that's a really long time."

The Luidaeg sobers, studying him over her glass. Her eyes are deep and sea-flecked, not fitting with the human guise she wears. Quentin notices that the scent of mold has faded, though he doesn't take his eyes off the woman in front of him to look around.

Finally the Luidaeg smiles. "Spoken with the grace and wisdom of a fae far beyond your years but well within the range of your experience. Perhaps it wasn't eminently foolish of your parents to allow you to train under October."

"I think it was the best thing that could ever have happened to me." Quentin gestures towards the couch where the Luidaeg is currently reclining. "May I join you?"

"Come along then." Patting the seat beside her, the Luidaeg gestures expansively with her cup, grinning a shark-toothed grin at him. "Come snuggle up with granny on the couch."

Quentin settles down beside her, not flinching at the sight of her more monstrous nature. The monsters that frighten him most—the _living_ ones, at least, because Blind Michael will always be a part of his nightmares now—aren't the ones that show their natures proudly. "How're you doing?"

"How am I doing now that something approaching my children swims the seas again? How am I doing now that I've been monster and angel and terrible combination of the two to those who trusted me and thought they knew and loved me?" The Luidaeg gives a cackle that sounds more like a sob. "I'm doing just fine, thank you very much."

The most terrible part about the words is that Quentin knows they're true. The Luidaeg can't lie, not truly, not even in the service of sarcasm. After all that she's been through, after all the millenia and her family have wrought on her, she is fine after this latest trouble. She will keep going on, the monster and the mother and the mourner.

The only question is what Quentin wants to do about it. He leans towards her. "Dean's hosting a dinner party, and we'd like you to come to it, if you'd be willing."

The Luidaeg stares at him as though he's grown a second head.

"It's going to be Dean and me and Toby and probably Tybalt, because separating Tybalt from Toby is impossible right about now. Hopefully Raj and some of the other Cait Sidhe. Possibly also Dianda and Patrick and Peter, so that maybe Dianda will fight someone and stop being so worried about Dean and Peter."

"Are you inviting me to come fight your lover's mother so that both of us feel better?" The Luidaeg raises one eyebrow.

Quentin considers his answer. "If it would work and you promise not to kill her, then sure."

The Luidaeg laughs, and this time there's honest mirth in it. "I'll consider it. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Quentin looks around at the clean, salt-smelling living room that surrounds them now. "Have any more old games you want to teach me?"

"You trust me too much. It's going to blow up in your face one of these days, I suspect." The Luidaeg moves over to a chest in the corner, her appearance that of the pig-tailed girl, her eyes finally fitting the rest of her appearance again. "And sure, I'm happy to kick your ass at games your father should have taught you years ago."

One very egregiously lost game of chance and mock combat with little pegs later, Quentin finds himself bustled out the door and towards the street.

He's still not sure if the Luidaeg is coming or not, but he's glad that he at least made the offer.

He debates heading towards Gillian's house and inviting her, too, but he knows she won't appreciate it. More to the point, Toby likely won't appreciate his meddling, especially if he really does lose his temper and just slug Toby's daughter in the face.

It's not Gillian's fault, he supposes. She didn't grow up in Fairie; she never had the Changeling's Choice, though even that, he's found, seems less fair the older he gets. She blames Toby for all that Fairie is, when Toby has only ever suffered under the same rules.

Quentin won't convince Gillian that Fairie can be as beautiful as it is cruel—that Fairie is only as cruel as the nature and the people from which it draws its power—by being cruel to her in turn. He needs to be patient, as patient as Toby is being, and wait for an opportunity to prove to Gillian that they're not the reasons she needs to be afraid.

To prove that she has no more or less to fear in Fairie than she did in the mortal world, only _different_ things.

To show her that _Quentin_ , maybe, will one day be able to change things.

It's something he thinks about more and more lately. He is the Crown Prince. He will one day have power. Not unlimited power—he has learned from watching the Torquills that even the most well-meaning lords have limits to their power. But he will be able to influence things, to _change_ things, and he has to decide what it is he wants to change.

Who he wants to court as allies, and who he is willing to risk as enemies.

How much of his blood-covered knight he wants to emulate, and how much he thinks he _can_.

Assuming something doesn't happen with Toby that yanks the whole foundations of the world out of line. He's prepared for that, too, given how many First-Born and near-mythical beings Toby has a tendency to run into.

Quentin finds that his feet have turned towards home—towards Toby's house—and he allows them to take them to the place and the people he feels most comfortable with in all the world. He'll invite Toby and Tybalt, and trust Tybalt to get a message to Raj, and they can all have a good evening tonight.

XXX

"That was the best, most awkward dinner party I've ever held." Dean tumbles onto their bed with a groan of satisfied pleasure, grinning up at Quentin.

"I thought that it went rather well. Toby didn't end up covered in blood, so that's a step in the right direction." Quentin winces. "Though the duel between Tybalt and that Merrow wasn't exactly planned."

Dean waves a hand. "They were enjoying themselves. If Tybalt weren't so head-over-heels for your knight I would even go so far as to say it was good flirting and foreplay."

"Your people are a little weird, you know that?"

"Says the man who lives with Sir October Daye and follows her into mortal danger on a regular basis."

"I didn't say that mine _weren't_ , just that yours _were_." Quentin flops down on the bed next to Dean. "I'm glad we got everyone together. May and Jazz seemed to enjoy themselves."

"It was a good idea. Though you could have heard a pin drop when the Luidaeg walked in."

Quentin gathers Dean into his arms. "And it still managed to get quieter still when she suggested we all do the macarena."

Dean laughs, though his expression sobers as he studies Quentin. "What is it that you're trying to do with her?"

"Just... be a good friend." Quentin shrugs, the movement feeling awkward with them both lying down. "I figure it's better—and _kinder—_ than the alternative."

Dean sighs dreamily. "I like that about you, you know. That you're a pure-blood who cares about kindness."

"I couldn't survive with Toby without it." Quentin whispers the words into Dean's hair. "And I wouldn't want to know who I would be without Toby."

"I think that's true for most of us." Dean's words are a cold whisper against Quentin's neck as he snuggles into Quentin's side.

Later, when Dean is asleep and Quentin should be, Quentin studies Dean's face in profile.

One day Quentin will be King, and when he is what will Dean be? His friend still, he hopes. His lover still? Quentin will be expected to take a Queen, and though he would hardly be the first person to have a marriage bed and a partner on the side—Oberon Himself had two Queens—he's not sure that's something Dean would want.

But even if they're not together like _this_...

It had been a rowdy, dangerous, wonderful dinner. There had been Heroes and there had been monsters; knights and lords and ladies and Cats.

When Quentin has his Court, _that_ is what he wants his inner council to look like.

It's going to scandalize half the nation, he knows, but the half who accepts it... the half who is _helped_ by it...

Well, he thinks he's going to end up liking that half more, in the end.


End file.
